


your makeup on my sheets (how we were before)

by somewhereelse



Series: Guidelines for Reintroduction [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 13:47:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16955202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somewhereelse/pseuds/somewhereelse
Summary: Interlude between 7.07 and 7.08.Oliver and Felicity discuss makeup and making up.





	your makeup on my sheets (how we were before)

**Author's Note:**

> So much less angsty than the all lowercase, song lyric (butchered from John Newman’s _Goodnight Goodbye_ ), parenthesis title indicates.

Felicity collapses onto the bed, face turned away from him and half-buried in a pillow. 

Unable to deny his curiosity, Oliver crawls over her mostly prone body, still heaving great, sucking breaths in to combat their exertion. He presses his sweaty chest to slide across her damp back and shoulders, never one to pass up the opportunity for skin-to-skin contact. His rightfully exhausted wife barely acknowledges his presence, fingers twitching against his thigh as he sprawls out over her.

“Hmm?” she mumbles in sated confusion when he slips a hand through her hair. He grips the gold firmly but carefully, tugging until he can see her blissed out expression up close. Felicity doesn’t bother to work her eyes open and instead hums contently as he massages the base of her skull.

Nope.

_Damn it._

Some form of frustrated growl escapes his throat, and Felicity’s eyes start to pop open except he doesn’t really give her the chance. He quickly kisses her, more like attacks her mouth, and they’re so consumed by it neither really notices when Felicity manages to turn beneath him and he slips between her legs once more. It’s just instinctual because they haven’t lost that part of their relationship, thank god. When they separate, she’s panting harshly again, white teeth sunk into the lower lip he’d just been biting. 

Still _nothing_.

Oliver grunts, winces, does _something_ , because a second later, Felicity is gripping the sides of his face, fingers stroking down his cheeks in that familiar soothing gesture.

“Hey, what? What is it?”

Immediately, he feels bad for the tension he’s put into her voice and body. A panic attack after sex is, unfortunately, a thing that’s happened to him before, and not one he wants to repeat. His mood might be a little sour at the moment, but it’s nowhere near as bad as Felicity is anticipating.

“Nothing.” The word tears out of him in a disgruntled rumble that undermines his attempt at comfort. Felicity rolls her eyes even as she continues her massage, kneading into pressure points around his temple. It’s all he can do to not melt onto his wife. The comfort disarms him just enough that the complaint slips out. ”You need different lipstick.”

“Excuse me?” she chokes out in a half-laugh, fingers frozen on his face.

Oliver knows what she’s thinking. Since when does he care about her makeup? He loves her every which way: fully made up for some fancy event, everyday amounts of primped, barefaced in the late evenings and early mornings. Never before has he commented on how she should dress or present herself, and he truly doesn’t care except...

“Lipstick?” Felicity repeats once her incredulity has cemented. “Oliver, I think I passed out for a second there, but how did we go from _that_ to you taking offense to my _lipstick?_ ”

“Felicity,” Oliver tries to get his voice out of that low sex register but he’s too parched from doing all _that_ , “Did you change lipstick brands or something?”

She sighs heavily, her hands slipping down his face to drape solidly on his shoulders. “Yes, although I don’t know why you’re noticing _now_.” With a flirty look, Felicity puckers her lips together, and he instinctively leans down to kiss her. Then he grumbles after he pulls away with no effect. “Hey, mister, can you not make grouchy face when we’re naked? ‘Kay, thanks.”

Oliver manages a light chuckle. “Not ‘cause of _you_. Just. What was wrong with your old lipstick?”

Casually, Felicity shrugs, and he forces himself to focus on her words and not everything else she has pressed against him. “It smeared too easily, and I needed something a little more stay fast.” This time, Felicity moves against him more deliberately, and he knows she’s trying to distract him.

But why does she need to distract him from her makeup choices? Then again, why did she need more permanent lipstick when he wasn’t around to kiss it off her?

The answer hits him like a punch to the head. He’s noticed the different products in the bathroom, but it just now occurs to him that they all promise new longer-lasting, smudge-proof,  _waterproof_  results. Felicity had to change her makeup because she spent so much time  _crying_. Over him. _Because of_ him.

Damn it, why’s he such a fuck up?

“Hey,” she gently interrupts his downward spiral with a peck and a teasing grin, “I can always go back to the old stuff. I shouldn’t need to reapply it so much anymore. Or maybe I will if you keep attack kissing me like that.”

It’s a tacit admission to the realization that must be all over his face. Mentally scolding himself, he responds gruffly, “You don’t have to do that.”

This isn’t what Felicity needs days after his release. He’s the one who put them in this situation. She shouldn’t have to be making him feel better about it. In fact, he should get back to making it up to her. “You know,” he prompts suggestively, “I dreamed about having you for months.”

“Uh huh,” she agrees mindlessly, already captivated by his words.

See, here’s the thing. Oliver knows that he used to be charming—can still be when he wants to be which is about never—but Felicity’s the first person to not _need_ that side of him. She finds his words and thoughts important and worthy even when he’s not putting in the effort to make them pretty and special. She might actually like it even more when he’s honest and forthcoming instead of practiced and smooth, but her favorite is when he’s contemplating all the ways they can love each other.

“And I dreamed about _you_ having _me_ for months,” he flips the script, getting to the heart of the matter. There’s a reason, maybe not a legitimate one but a _reason_ nonetheless, that her lipstick bothers him when he usually only cares about using the color as a barometer for her mood.

Felicity’s lips slide into a beautiful, full smile. The reddish tint enhances the sultriness of her gaze, but he knows how much better it would look if the stain would just... give a little. “Me too.” Her eyes brighten, and her hands lay claim to more territory, rubbing over his shoulders and arms. “So, so, so many dreams.”

Oliver nods solemnly in agreement. ”And in none of those dreams, was your lipstick practically tattooed onto your mouth. Do you know how many times I woke up looking for your marks on my chest, on my abs, on my co—”

Felicity yelps, pulling her hands away from the trail he was just describing. With an incredulous look, she runs a hand through her hair then touches a corner of her still impeccably painted mouth. “You’re telling me this is about how you miss scrubbing my lipstick off your skin?”

“And washing it off the sheets,” Oliver adds with a frown toward the pristine white pillowcase. “I’m a visual learner, Felicity,” he explains almost clinically before giving up the ploy. He rears back to balance on his knees, giving Felicity a show while running his hands over her thighs just the way she likes. “I like having tangible evidence of my _progress_ and _accomplishments_.”

“God, how is this sexy? You have to be kidding me,” she breathes as he unapologetically leers at the hickeys and beard burn he’s left on her.

There’s no mistaking what he means by _progress_ and _accomplishments_ , but Oliver decides to spell it out anyway. “I miss knowing how many kisses it takes to smudge your lipstick, how many times I have to make you come before you’ve chewed it all off, how wet and messy it gets when it’s smeared all over me. I miss seeing how you _own_ me.”

The next thing he knows, Felicity has her legs wrapped around him, heels urgently pressed into his lower back. She uses the leverage to drag him down enough and herself up enough to grab hold of his shoulders. With the element of surprise on her side, Oliver barely has enough time to catch some of his weight on the mattress, although he still lands solidly on top of her. Felicity doesn’t seem to mind, though, if her happy and suggestive grin is anything to go by.

“This lipstick has to come off eventually. Get down here and try harder, damn it.”

 


End file.
